


Anytime, Anyplace

by imunbreakabledude



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, a moment for the good souls left behind by this show, maybe more? - Freeform, not so much fixing canon but fixing my broken heart, spoilers for 3x01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imunbreakabledude/pseuds/imunbreakabledude
Summary: When Kenny gets himself in too deep with the Twelve, Hugo's there.
Relationships: Kenny Stowton & Hugo Turner
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	Anytime, Anyplace

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS FOR SEASON 3 EPISODE 1 AHEAD
> 
> \-------
> 
> Also thanks to fixy for helping me with my unfortunate handicap of being american

Hugo runs his fingers through his hair, then realizes, he’d better stop, or he’ll start prematurely thinning. It’s a bad habit he’s been trying to quit, though it’s only gotten worse as of late. He’s been on the phone with lawyers all day. Calling in, of course, because he’s not going anywhere near London again unless he has to.

These calls are all routine, and though he understands the need for thoroughness, Hugo is growing tired of repeating himself: _Yes, I got shot three times. Yes, it was on the job. No, MI6 did not properly document the risks of the mission. In fact, there was no documentation of any of it. Yes, gross negligence. Yes, I’m pursuing the maximum penalty._

It should be an open and shut case, his solicitor assures him (and of course he has one of the best solicitors in the UK — Oxford’s network does not fail), but still, it’s putting more stress on him than he’d care to admit.

He’s noticed bags under his eyes that don’t go away after a good night’s sleep. He looks like the before picture in a commercial of some skin cream marketed towards women fifty and older. This supposed open-and-shut case is taking a toll on him.

Though not _all_ of his stress can be attributed to the lawsuit.

It’s so nice when he finally hangs up the phone, stretches his legs, and heats up some dinner. Leftover Indian from yesterday. He’s too tired to cook something new. As he eats, he opens up his phone and goes through his email. Most is routine, a bill here, a coupon there, but one catches his eye.

A link forwarded from a no reply address, to a news article: “Explosive Devices Feared as Seahorse Decline Worsens”.

It’s time.

That message ought to make Hugo relax. But instead, he can feel his pulse begin to spike. There’s not much he needs to do; he only has a small part in this plan. But that’s what makes him nervous: there’s not much he can do.

He gets in his car and drives out to the country. Down a narrow lane, then a dirt road, then stops in a clearing, and walks on foot, carrying the large pack of supplies he prepped for this occasion, pushing through the light brush until he reaches a small cabin. Thoroughly off the grid.

He goes inside, makes sure the generator is working, and stocks the fridge with the provisions he brought. All he can do now that he’s prepped the receiving location is wait. And the waiting is agony.

The cabin has no internet and is strategically located in a dead zone of all major cellular networks. For good reason, of course, but Hugo really wishes he could scroll through Instagram to help distract himself as the minutes creep by, slow as molasses.

It occurs to him: if something goes wrong, he’ll never know. He’ll be waiting and waiting and nothing will happen, until at some point he concludes from how long he’s been waiting that something must have gone wrong, but there will be no sound of a shoe dropping, no moment to tie it all up in a bow. And then at some point he’ll leave, return to civilization and check his email, hoping for another cryptic message that concludes the plan was postponed but the sender is still safe and sound.

Or there might still be nothing, no email ever again, if it all went _really_ wrong.

Hugo’s beginning to lose it, counting the knots in the wooden paneling of the floor, when there’s a shuffling sound outside in the bushes. Just in case, Hugo’s hand flies to his gun on the end table (after he woke up from the surgery and saw the three bloody bullets that had been taken out of his torso sitting in a pan by his bed, he vowed if he were ever to get ambushed again he at least wanted to fire off a few shots of his own). 

As the sounds get louder and approach the door, Hugo wraps his hands tightly around the grip of the pistol. He’s shot a gun once in his life, when he was seventeen, while hunting with his best mates on holiday. His shot didn’t hit anything, and it was only in the general direction of a deer, not a human being, so he can’t quite bring himself to aim the pistol at the door, assuming it is indeed a human making that rustling approach.

Footsteps. A knock. A pause. Another knock, then a third shortly after.

Dash, dot, dash. K.

Hugo throws the gun down and rushes to open the door.

There stands Kenny. He looks rather worse for wear – extremely pale, with blood and dirt smeared across the side of his head, dark circles around his eyes, but he’s alive.

Hugo can’t help himself. He doesn’t hesitate, and pulls Kenny over the threshold, in for a hug. One point five seconds, a regular friend amount. Even though perhaps more is merited, given the circumstances. Then, he lets go looks Kenny up and down, and clears his throat. “You managed?”  
  
“It was rough,” Kenny says, as he steps inside, and drops the small duffel bag he’s carrying. “I mean, it worked. The dummy fell, and I was able to stow it and then get into position in time. But then came the worst part. Had to lie still with the paralytic until the coroner came and loaded me into the van. Could hear everything they were saying.”

“That’s insane,” Hugo offers. “What did they…?”

“Mum didn’t say much,” Kenny murmurs. “Eve’s reaction was harder to bear. Louder, at least.”

Hugo swallows. “Well, it’s through now, isn’t it?”

Kenny looks pensive. “I expect Mum is already smelling something fishy.”

“Sleep here for the night, and we can get you farther away in the morning,” Hugo says. 

“But on the other hand, I’m not sure if she’ll come looking.” A mixture of relief and sadness paint Kenny’s face. 

“That’s probably for the best,” Hugo says, evenly. “And with all the money I’ll get from MI6, that should keep us both very comfortable indeed.”

Kenny drags his feet over to the small couch, then collapses. “Dying is pretty hard work, actually.”

“I can only imagine,” Hugo says. “Can I get you something? Water?”

“Anything stronger?” Kenny says, without lifting his head off of the back of the couch. 

Hugo can’t suppress a smirk as he goes to open the bottle of scotch he brought along just for this eventuality. He pours three fingers worth into a plastic cup, the only one of an appropriate size he can find in the cabin, and delivers it to Kenny’s waiting hand.

For a few minutes, Kenny sips in silence. Hugo is pretty sure he’s never seen evidence of Kenny consuming alcohol before, and almost believed that he might be a teetotaler. It’s comforting to know that even the valiant hero targeted by the Twelve has his vices.

Hugo wonders if he should let it remain silent, or try to start up a conversation. Kenny just stares at the wall, like his thoughts are very far away. Is he imagining his own funeral? Is he still haunted by the experience of sitting paralyzed while the people he knew declared him to be dead?

Something in the way Kenny stares is a bit too distant, like he really is a ghost. So Hugo adjusts his position on the couch, to face Kenny, and says, “There’s something I’ve got to show you.” 

Kenny blinks, startled, like he’d forgotten Hugo was there. Hugo reaches into his pocket for his phone, and pulls up a photo, before handing it to Kenny. It takes a moment, but Kenny softens. “Is this…?”

“James Lawson, twelve weeks old when that was taken, though I suppose he’s fourteen weeks now,” Hugo beams. “Jess said I was the first person outside her family who got to hold him. Not that it’s a contest or anything.”

“He’s wonderful,” Kenny says.

“You’ll meet him someday,” Hugo says.

“You know that’s not–”

“We can trust Jess,” Hugo says firmly.

“She still works for them.”

“Technically, she’s on maternity leave for another few months.”

Kenny just stares at him in that blank way that somehow makes Hugo feel incredibly ashamed of himself. A look that he certainly learned from his mother.

“She’s one of the good ones,” Hugo insists.

“Yeah,” Kenny sighs. “She is.”

A silence settles while Kenny sips his scotch, draining the last drops. He worked through it faster than Hugo expected him to. 

“Maybe in a few months,” Hugo offers. “Or a year.”

Kenny slips back to that distant stare, and Hugo worries that this time there will be no retrieving him. 

Then, just when Hugo is prepared to leave and let Kenny be for the night, alone with his thoughts. But right as Hugo gets up, he hears Kenny say, “That kid will need babysitting someday.”

Kenny holds out his empty cup to Hugo, who chuckles and takes it for a refill. “I’ll let her know she can call on you when the time comes.”

Hugo pours more scotch for Kenny, and hell, he gets out a second cup and pours some for himself, too. He returns to sit on the couch, but as Kenny takes the cup, he goes distant again. 

“Is this it?” he asks. “I mean, is there another room.”

“Bedroom that way,” Hugo says, pointing to one of the only other doors in the cabin. “Tiny bathroom in the door next to it. But that’s it.”

Kenny stands up, bringing his scotch with him as he goes to the bedroom. “I need a bit. If that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Hugo says. “Take all the time you need.”

Kenny goes and shuts the door. Hugo is left alone in the living room-slash-kitchenette, sitting on the couch with his scotch. 

It’s nearly midnight, and Hugo wonders if he should head home for the night. After all, it’s not like Kenny needs looking after. Hugo can always return tomorrow to check on him. 

But something keeps Hugo from beginning the drive back to his flat. It seems wrong to leave Kenny alone tonight. No one should have to be alone on the night he dies. Hugo can sleep on this couch if need be, and indeed, as he sips the scotch a fuzzy drowsiness is beginning to set into his limbs and weigh him down in place.

At some point he drifts off, because when he blinks awake again and checks his phone, it’s past one o’clock. He stretches and rises, thinking at least it’s worthwhile to spread out a blanket and make a proper bed out of the couch if he’s going to bed, when he notices the light still pouring from the crack underneath the bedroom door.

Hugo creeps over to the door, and knocks gently. “Alright in there?”

“Come in,” says the voice from inside. So Hugo does.

He sees Kenny, sat on the lumpy twin bed, with a piece of paper propped on a book in front of him. He’s in the midst of writing something, and it appears like he’s scrapped several attempts, which take the form of crumpled papers dotting the bedspread like popcorn.

Hugo fixes his gaze on the current draft, but then notices Kenny staring up at him. “Sorry,” Hugo says quickly. “Not trying to snoop, but…”

“You don’t have to pretend,” Kenny sighs. “It’s okay.”

Then, Kenny picks up the paper and offers it to Hugo. In Kenny’s messy ballpoint-pen-scrawl, it says:

_You’ve probably heard by now. I wish you didn’t have to. I wish I could’ve warned you beforehand so you wouldn’t have to feel it. I’m not sure if telling you the truth makes it better or worse_

_But, still, I wanted you to know._

Kenny fiddles with his fingers, and mumbles, “How’s it read?”

Hugo searches for the right words. Eventually, he says, “It’s never going to be easy,” and hands the paper back.

“I know,” Kenny says, as he takes it, and stares down at what he’s written.

A heavy moment passes. Hugo suddenly feels very out of his depth. It isn’t often that he admits that to himself, especially because his skill set is both incredibly broad and incredibly deep, but he thinks he may not be the right man for this job. Someone else would know what to say in this moment. Someone else would find the words to comfort the man who’s had to leave behind everything he knew in order to stay alive. 

Eventually, Hugo accepts that he won’t come up with anything more profound to say, and simply states, “I’m really glad you’re safe.”

“Could you deliver it for me?” Kenny asks.

“Sure thing,” Hugo says. “Eve?”

Kenny shakes his head, as he scribbles something down on a scrap of paper which he then tears off and hands over. “Her name’s Elena Felton; this is the last address I had for her. But you shouldn’t go in person, it’d be too suspicious. Give it to another friend, someone who’s not got any connection to MI6, to give to her.”

“That might be tough,” Hugo says. “All my friends are in high places.”

Kenny cracks the slightest smile, but the sight warms Hugo up like August sunshine.

“Of course I’ll do it,” Hugo says. And he senses that the moment might require a small amount of physical contact to seal the deal, so he lays his hand on Kenny’s shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you,” Kenny says. “For being here.”

“Anytime.” Hugo says. “And anyplace.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is my way of grieving :(
> 
> please convince me not to write this into a full multichapter fic that runs parallel to all the events of s3 to come and shows my two best boys thriving in safety


End file.
